Honk for Jay

I grew up in Spanish Springs, a somewhat rural, more-so suburban area of Sparks. There wasn’t much for us to do out there, so my parents often took me and my two older sisters out to Pyramid Lake to go out on the boat for the day or camp for a weekend. My memories of these trips mostly consist of spitting dirt out of my mouth after the sandstorms or crying at night because I thought the water babies might crawl out of the dark, somber waters and drag me away while my family slept soundly. The most consistent thing about our family going to Pyramid was the drive itself. About two-thirds of the way there, we would be flying down the highway blasting some old Metallica CD, when either my mom or my dad would yell, “Say hello to, Jay!!” And someone would excitedly honk the horn as we screamed our hellos to the small white cross that sat alone at the side of the road.

A second staple in my childhood, was the third Friday of every month. On this specific Friday, we would head over to Papa Hal’s house and eat spaghetti with him, his two giant rottweilers and his creepy pet tarantula. Sometimes, he would let the furry eight-legged creature rest on his left shoulder as we ate. Further down, but still on his upper left arm, were three names tattooed wrapping like a sort of band. One name he had inked forever was my own, Jaycee. Papa Hal had a son named Jason who donned the name Jay at a young age. My dad and Jay used to work together, drink together, laugh and party and practically spend every day with one another. After my mom met my dad, they became a trio of best friends. They took on life together, all of the good and the bad.

Despite all the good, the bad out weighed it. Jay wound up in some trouble. My parents have always been honest with me about the trials and tribulations he faced with drugs, alcohol and debt. In the summer of 1998, after a night out of drinking alone at Pyramid, Jay was driving back to Reno early in the morning. His hand reached for his shotgun and he put it to his chin. His car crashed on the side of the road where the owner of a ranch nearby found his ejected body. A temporary tattoo, a pen from Eldorado, and two pink wine coolers were left to collect. My parents emphasized the good man Jay was to them. How his humor and love brought so much light into their world. They had no second thoughts of honoring him by using his byname for my first name. I was born three months after his passing. They named me Jaycee Ann Grider. I too, go by the name Jay. Although our little family has grown apart, I still find myself honking for Jay and giving my hellos on the rare occasion that I do find myself driving out to Pyramid.

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